


Wood Work

by kateyboosh



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Adult themes of improperly hung shelves, But also he literally gives him an actual physical horn after a, Crack, Glove love, Gratuitous sandpaper-themed dirty talk, Hand Job, Hand sheaths, In this he just gives him the horn, M/M, Monsterfucking, Sand gives Vince a horn in the OG ep, Smut, Sort Of, shrug, this is normal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:00:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27878757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kateyboosh/pseuds/kateyboosh
Summary: The Chosen One needs exfoliation, and there's only one DIY Demon on Xooberon equipped for the job.Your next Crackmas present comes wrapped in sandpaper, cowboy.
Relationships: Vince Noir/Sandstorm
Comments: 11
Kudos: 10
Collections: Trash Triplets Crackmas 2020: It's All About Range





	Wood Work

**Author's Note:**

> There’s a distinct lack of Vince/Sandstorm in this fandom and I’m here to rectify it.
> 
> The dialogue in the “Vince meets Sandstorm and helps him with his problem” scene is straight from the show, up to the point that it clearly is not.
> 
> Things that might be helpful when reading, or reasons why I’m on some type of DIY watchlist, or a glossary of sandpaper terms:  
> Weights: Sandpaper comes in different weights from A to E, with A as the lightest weight, designed for finishing work, and D as one of the heavier weights for heavier jobs.
> 
> Thousand grit: Grit numbers rate how abrasive sandpaper is. Lower numbers are coarse and for quick removal of material, higher numbers are fine and for smoothing of material. 40 grit is incredibly abrasive, thousand grit is fine and smooth, for delicate jobs.
> 
> Dry vs wet sanding: Dry sanding is like an initial sanding used to smooth out uneven edges. Wet sanding is like a final smoothing for your finished piece, done with water and some type of lubricant like soap or oil. If dry sanding is the first step to smoothness, wet sanding is the final step to getting a piece to polished perfection.

Vince sighs. He wipes a thin film of grit off of his mirror, hung in the corner of his tent. His straighteners are warming on the makeshift shelf that Howard had hung for him last night as that blue berk watched and instructed him. Alan, Vince thinks his name is.

“More berating,” Vince had directed lazily, waving a hand in their general direction as he filed his nails. He had to admit, a severed hand was a well disgusting gift to unwrap, but it was turning out to be quite convenient, quite good for waving about and pointing when he had something important to say. Quite _handy_ , one might say, if one was disposed to making puns like that.

Vince wasn’t, really. He just liked how the hand's shade of metallic blue matched the stars on his outfit.

Vince had smiled as Alan shouted, “Higher, you fool! Higher! Straighten it out, you pigdog! The Chosen One can’t have his beautifying lotions and potions sliding off into the sand!”

Vince tackled the particularly rough curve of his pinky, nodding in agreement as Alan roared, “He can’t look at a crooked shelf! For that to be in the same room as the Chosen One is a severe insult! Shame, shame on you and your poor handling of interior design! You sully the name of architecture; you spit on its grave and call its fair lady mother a bellowing jackass! No, no, no, not like that… a little more to the left!”

The shelf eventually went up as Howard knelt and hammered and jangled his slave chains with more attitude than Vince found altogether necessary. Still, Vince had lounged as Alan produced a level, a tape measure, a plane, several small woven baskets, a screwdriver, and a tiny decorative vase from the folds of his robe. He’d stretched the tape measure between his remaining hand and his teeth, leaping up to make sure the distance between the ground and the top of the shelf was perfectly spaced to Vince’s height, in and out of his boots. Then, he’d kicked Howard in his bare shins and proclaimed the shelf hanging to be a success, no thanks to useless Howard, all thanks to Alan.

Vince rolled his eyes when they’d finally stepped out of the tent and the vase and several of the baskets slid off the shelf and into the sand below with a puff of dust.

Alan wasn't joking when he called it the Desert of Nightmares. Dust is everywhere and the climate on this part of Xooberon is dead dry. It’s been murder on Vince’s skin and hair. In his short tenure, he's found that being the Chosen One, having people waiting on your every word and sitting still for your official portrait and such, takes a lot of preparation, a lot of carefully followed beauty regimens. 

True, it’s like Vince has been training himself up for this moment his entire life, like this position was just waiting for him to magic himself to Xooberon, bending his knees as he leapt from Naboo’s room in the flat to the desert. But still, he can’t help worrying a bit. Split ends and flyaways appear when he least expects them. If he was to let his hair go, let it dry to a crisp in the punishing Xooberon sun, or Jagger forbid, let it end up with the texture of the straw they gave the animals at the Zooniverse to lie in… it would be all over. Sartorially and as a sovereign ruler.

Luckily, he never travels without a stock of miniature heat protectants and serums and hair oils, and they’ve been enough to keep the moisture sealed in his sleek black locks so far.

His skin, however… his skin is another story. It’s been playing up a bit.

Vince gives his reflection a good once-over, the heat from his straighteners radiating up towards his body when he leans in and angles his cheek toward the mirror. He runs his hand over his throat and down to his chest and sighs again. After using an entire bottle of Winter-range Factor 3000 while wandering around the desert, he’s in need of some of his favorite extra-strength rosewater and aloe moisturizer. It’s not enough of an emergency to require an immediate trip back to the flat just yet, but it’s a concern, and he’s keeping an eye on the situation very closely.

Maybe a little too closely. 

Vince backs up when he feels the cool but still annoyingly gritty surface of the mirror press against his cheek.

He brushes his hand over his face to remove the sand and it makes him think, maybe he should add some gentle exfoliation to his routine. Worse comes to worst and he gets desperate, he could make Howard extract water from the patch of prickly cacti he saw dotting the scenery behind some large blue rocks. There have to be well good nutrients and vitamins and such in those cacti, hidden behind a rough exterior as they are. 

Regardless of pressing skin matters, Vince needs the utmost concentration to get the fiddly bits at the back of his head straightened right in the low light from the lanterns. He’s just about done, tossing his miniature straightener down and settling on the one-inch when he hears shouting outside his tent.

Vince makes a face at himself in the mirror and yanks the cord of his straightener out of the tent wall. He stalks outside to see what all the fuss is about.

*

Vince shields his eyes from the swirling waves of sand and clouds of dust that are billowing in as he stumbles through the darkening desert. He scowls. His hair is thick and heavy with sand, completely ruined and in need of a good washing. His mouth feels like he's snogged a feather duster, his lipgloss full of grit.

When he'd exited his tent a few minutes ago and seen Alan's blue army scattering, Vince felt a little finger of apprehension on the back of his neck, tickling where he hadn't yet worked his hair magic. When Alan had told Vince his responsibility as the Chosen One was to destroy the evil sand beast, and he'd specifically used the word "test," the finger of apprehension grew to a Howard-sized palm on his back. And when he'd realized the Howard-sized palm on his back actually belonged to Howard, who'd bumped into him in his haste to get away, and kept his hand there long enough to rub it in, confirming to Alan that Vince was certainly the Chosen One, no suspicions otherwise, no sir, before scampering off in the opposite direction.... 

Vince realized he was well and truly fucked.

Alan hadn't exactly been clear on that point at the beginning, that “responsibilities” and “tests” were part of his duties as the Chosen One. Responsibility is something Vince doesn't do, something that he avoids at all costs after his tenure at the Zooniverse. He surely doesn't take tests, either, not after leaving school, not unless the answers are multiple choice and the subject is "What Flavor of Lipgloss Are You?" and the test paper is a column printed in bright colors sandwiched in Cheekbone magazine between the New Shoe Review and ads for volumizing conditioners. 

Responsibility is something that breaks Vince out in a rash, kind of like the mirrorball suit does after repeated wearing. Point is, he can't afford to get one of those now, with his favorite moisturizer tucked safely away in a basket under the sink in their flat thousands or tens of thousands or millions of miles away. He's not sure, geography and navigation not being one of his best subjects at school. He'd failed _that_ test with flying colors. 

For a moment, an image of Howard when they were at school flashes into Vince's brain. Past Howard had spun the globe in the library, pointing out the differences between continents and countries with a jaunty chuckle, trying to help past Vince revise for their exams. He hadn't retained anything except for the image of Howard's huge, well-shaped hands rotating over seas and mountains, spanning oceans.

Present day Vince scoffs at past Vince. Present day Howard's huge, _traitorous_ hands, more like.

Still, Vince has his ways and his charms and his well-honed confidence. Even if his lipgloss is currently more grit than glitter, his mouth is still full of charm and honey. He bats a cloud of sand away from his head with his gloves and steps forward, into an area littered with more low, flat, blue rocks.

Besides, Vince thinks, he can always leg it if this evil sand beast looks at him funny.

*

The evil sand beast looks at him funny, his eyes dazed as he spins to a stop in front of Vince. His eyebrows waggle as he freezes and steadies himself, tiny eyes darting side to side, glasspaper palms up.

Vince is half-intrigued, half-confused. Surely an evil sand beast would need to be taller, more imposing, more evil and sandy and, well, _beastly_ than the man in the clumsy sandpaper suit in front of him?

Vince shifts in his boots and feels a trickle of sand sift down his back as the sand beast/man reorients. He peers over the creature’s shoulder, looking at the outcropping of blue rocks where he spun into the clearing. It’s a sparse but neat area, quaint even, in the middle of the Desert of Nightmares. A variety of expertly crafted wooden tables and chairs and cabinets and straight, even shelves are stacked around the perimeter. Over in one corner, on top of a well-buffed workbench, are cans of varnish and sheets of extra sandpaper and a pile of glossy DIY magazines that Vince recognizes from the newsagent’s stand back home.

Vince frowns as the sand beast/man introduces himself. His voice tickles at Vince's skin, at the corners of his memory. He's pretty sure he's never met this freak of nature before, but there's something in his tone and in his height and broad-shouldered build that reminds Vince of-

"Hey, cowboy! Are you listening to me?" the sand beast - Sandstorm, Vince reminds himself - brays. "I am the DIY Demon! Sandstorm! Ha!" 

Vince resists the urge to roll his eyes.

Clearly, he’d worried for nothing over the whole “responsibilities” and “tests” part of this Chosen One gig if this was what he had to deal with. Defeating Sandstorm would take him about twelve seconds if he had a cool drink. He’d just casually lope over to Sandstorm’s wood shop and forget to use a coaster, grinding the condensation from the bottom of his glass into a table, and the DIY Demon would fall to his knees, wailing, “It’s going to leave a ring!” in his funny, clipped voice.

Vince would skip back to his tent, command Howard to haul him enough water for several baths, and Alan would simper and scrape and bow and commission epic poems in his name, maybe even a tapestry.

Easy.

Except Vince is pretty sure he hasn’t had a cool drink once since he’s been on Xooberon. The one thing he remembers well enough from his geography lectures is that there’s no ice caps or sheets or shelves waiting for him in the desert.

He sighs. Charm and honey it is, then.

Vince introduces himself to Sandstorm.

*

They don’t start off on the best foot, actually.

Or the best hand.

Step one of the “charm the sand beast/man” plan that’s forming in Vince’s head is to give Sand a firm, reassuring handshake, give him a little touch from Vince Noir that he’ll tell his glasspaper grandkids about fifty years from now. Sparkle his eyes a bit in the flattering desert dusk, duck his head, give him a grin that dazzles, and Vince is sure he’ll have Sand outfitting his tent with an entire hardwood bedroom set within the hour.

Only, Sandstorm’s whirring palm is harsh and rough against his when they make contact. Vince’s carefully filed nails catch when he pulls away. He scowls at Sandstorm, his glare turning incredulous when the DIY Demon laughs and proclaims his intentions to sand Vince “down to a pulp.”

Vince is confused; the intensity radiating off Sandstorm is slightly frightening, if he’s being honest. Howard had flirted with DIY for a few weeks after they’d left the Zooniverse and Vince had had the, erm… _pleasure_ of meeting some of Howard’s new mates, the ones he’d met at the Rusty Nail Craft Fair, the ones dressed in soft, easily washed fabrics and sensible shoes. Those DIY, craft types were usually more quietly sad and desperate and not so malevolently vocal about their secret destructive intentions.

And all of them had loved Vince.

Vince tries to ignore the nagging feeling that’s creeping up his legs, sliding along his back, pressing down on his shoulders, miring him like he’s stuck in quicksand. Before he can stop himself and regroup, he blurts out a question to Sandstorm.

Sure, it’s not the best reaction, but it’s an honest one. He’s a bit shaken by this blatant _not being liked_ business.

“Why?” Vince asks, sounding slightly more wounded than he would have preferred.

Sandstorm falters, as if he’s never heard the word before in his life. Who knows, maybe he hasn’t. It’s not like Vince is an expert in dealing with men made of sandpaper, men with repressed emotions, men who deny their true feelings.

Still, Vince is curious.

Sandstorm waffles. He holds back. He denies, and Vince’s instincts kick in, those wild, predatory senses honed in the jungles of India sharpening. He presses the matter, draws a tighter circle around his sandpaper prey, calls Sand “violence in a tool belt.”

Vince can see the moment Sand wavers; he can hear the wounded tone when Sand’s voice goes a bit high-pitched and strained as he admits that he is angry and frustrated. Vince goes in for the kill. His voice is soft and soothing but laced with the hint of a challenge when he asks the same question again.

“Why?”

He’s not expecting the answer he gets.

He’s not expecting anything that ends up happening.

*

“Because,” Sandstorm stutters, averting his eyes from Vince’s face. “I cannot love!”

Vince lets Sandstorm spill his woes, interjecting every now and again as the beast speaks, prompting him to go on. At first, Vince is torn. On one hand, he feels for Sand. No wonder why he’s so angry; life as a man who wears down everything he touches sounds awful, unthinkable and tragic to Vince. Not being able to run your hand over soft, velvety fabric without it snagging and tearing, not being able to pet a wiggly puppy or style your hair or peel a satsuma without a juice explosion… not even being able to touch yourself or someone else.

What a nightmare.

On the other hand, Vince considers his snagged nails and the eight minutes he spent carefully shaping them, and it’s enough to make him want to wipe the melancholy expression off of his face and put the challenging, stroppy one he’d worn at the beginning of their encounter back on.

Still, Vince reminds himself that he has his favorite diamond-strength files tucked away under his pillow, waiting back in his tent. And now that he knows what the issue is, he can talk Sandstorm down, give him some helpful advice, and be off quick smart, back to his glorious new life as the Chosen One.

Vince muses for a moment and offers Sand his most considered and helpful advice.

“Well, have you thought about accessorizing?”

Sandstorm’s confused “What?” lets Vince know everything he needs to. Clearly, “accessorizing” is another word that the sand beast has never heard.

The more Vince thinks about his idea, the more he knows it’s genius. Accessorizing has solved nearly every one of his problems. (At least, it’s solved the ones he cares to actively think about.) Although, he won’t give up his hat, and his belt is vintage from Camden, and nothing will ever pry Vince’s boots from his feet while he’s still breathing.

Vince makes the sacrifice he knows he has to. He holds up his gloves, a pair in white fringed leather that are nearly as soft as his pre-Desert-of-Nightmares skin. He offers them to Sandstorm.

“Well, you know, what about some gloves?”

“‘Gloves?’” Sand questions, his tiny eyes darting back and forth between the gloves and Vince’s face. “What is ‘gloves?’”

Vince isn’t entirely sure that his dainty gloves will fit Sandstorm’s huge, well-shaped hands, and he bites his tongue when he has to explain to Sand how he should put them on, complete with gestures, but he’s well pleased when they do slide over Sand’s palms as if by magic.

As Sand waggles his fingers, a smile lights up Vince’s face, flattering his features even more than the soft light of the desert at night. He watches Sand explore his face and his body, touching himself lightly, the fringe of Vince’s gloves wiggling in the cool night air.

Vince nods to himself, delighted that his plan worked. He’s so close to a warm bath and getting himself all cleaned up and sorted out, he can nearly feel the water on his skin.

He almost makes it, too.

His left boot is just clearing the ground, his knee bent to propel himself back to his tent when Sand dips his massive paw below his tool belt and, erm....

Starts sorting himself out. At lighting speed.

Vince gawks. His mouth gapes, his eyes grow to the size of saucers, his brain falters. He thought Sand was just some freak in a sandpaper suit, some nutjob who’d gone wrong and wandered into the desert to set up shop building tables and chairs because why not. He wasn’t expecting to see his gloves wrapped around a humongous, rough sandpaper cock slightly bigger than his own.

Vince wasn’t expecting to _like_ it.

And he sure wasn’t expecting to immediately imagine it was his hands in his gloves, touching Sand up.

He tries to play it off, planting his hands firmly on his hips, half-turning to face the other direction, but soon enough, the shock flitting over his face is replaced by hunger.

Vince’s trousers tighten. He feels the dust on his skin sliding off, replaced by lust.

Before he loses all of the blood out of his brain, he tries to make sense of what’s happening. Technically, he thinks, _technically_ , the last time he got off, he was on another planet. Doesn’t matter that it was less than twenty-four hours ago, probably less than twelve, maybe even fewer than six. Time is about as stupid and useless as geography is, in Vince’s opinion.

Point is, Vince is greedy. He likes a bit of danger. The thrill of possibly getting off with a man made of sandpaper who’d wanted to kill him five minutes earlier makes his cock twitch in the most agonizing way in the constricted, rapidly diminishing space left in the front of his trousers. 

And if Vince is greedy, then he makes up for it by (sometimes) being helpful.

“Oi!” he says, turning back to face Sandstorm. His eyes dart over Vince’s face as he trumpets “Glove love! Glove love!” His arm pistons like it’s electrically powered every time he makes direct eye contact with Vince, wanking himself even more rapidly, if that’s possible.

It unnerves Vince, and it also massively, _massively_ turns him on.

“Slow down!” he gulps. “You’re going to hurt yourself at that rate.” He moves toward Sandstorm. “Stop, give them here,” he says, his eyes still huge, gesturing at the gloves.

Sand withdraws his hand from below his toolbelt and peels the gloves off. As soon as both his hands are bare, he drops the gloves and his eyes to Vince’s feet, his posture drooping. His palms rotate mournfully.

Vince stoops, wishing he’d unzipped his trousers and let his compressed cock loose before gingerly bending over. He shakes the gloves out, little bits of glittery dust fluttering out to mix with the sand piled at his feet, and slips them on his hands. His voice is sweet, soft and soothing but husked when he speaks.

He takes a step closer, biting at his bottom lip, and gets as far as, “Is it alright with you if I-?” before Sand flings his toolbelt off, wood glue and screwdrivers and a familiar-looking horn clattering on a rock behind him.

His cock is even bigger than Vince initially thought. It sends a spike of desire through him when Sand thrusts his hips forward with a “Ha!,” his dark eyes darting back to Vince’s face. Whatever fragments of impulse control Vince has left blow away in the slight breeze that ripples through the clearing.

Vince flexes his fingers and wraps his hand around Sand’s cock. He squeezes. Sand’s impossibly hard, and maybe it’s down to the thickness of the leather, but Vince can’t detect any warmth coming off of him. He gives Sandstorm a tentative pump from base to tip and jerks back when Sand lets out an explosive, high-pitched “Ah!”

Sand doesn’t notice; he’s clamped his eyes shut and is leaning into Vince’s gloved fist, his waggling brow furrowed with pleasure. Sand’s hands flutter. His palms spin ecstatically when Vince runs his fingers over the tip of his cock, tracing the roughness of the shape. “Come on, cowboy,” Sand urges, his voice cracking as his hips snap forward into the circle of Vince’s thumb and finger, “smooth me down, buff me good, polish me up! I am Sandstorm! Ha! Ha ha!”

Vince grins and starts to jerk him in earnest. The faster he moves against Sand, the more friction he generates, the hotter Sand’s cock feels through his glove. He doesn’t let up, wanking him steadily, listening to all of the little nonsense noises and shouts that spill from Sand’s lips. He punctuates each of his thrusts with a punchy trail of “ah”s and “oh”s and “varnish me like you mean it”s that urge Vince to wank him faster, rougher, harder, until Vince can feel the leather of his glove roughening as it rasps against Sand’s massive, prickly cock.

When he’s close, Sand thrusts forward, nearly stumbling, kicking up a puff of dust at their feet. He gets as near as he can to Vince without touching him, his hand hovering over Vince’s shoulder, palms spinning at a whirlwind pace. A little thrill of danger runs up Vince’s spine at their proximity, his skin tingling with a mixture of apprehension and want.

He pictures taking Sand back to his tent, watching a maelstrom of whirling dust mix with the fabric draped around the walls, feathers flying out of the pillows covering the floor, ripped jewel tones filling the air. It’s all his mind can see when he closes his eyes, watching luxurious silks and princely satins go sailing away explosively in a fine mist of sand. 

Sand groans, pulling Vince back into the present. His wrist aches from gripping him so tightly, from the rapid pace he’s set. He focuses on the cool press of Sand’s body in contrast to his cock, which is nearly burning with friction in Vince’s palm. Sand’s nipples are rotating at a furious pace when he speaks, his clipped voice coming out as smooth as hardwood rubbed all over with thousand grit.

“Oh, cowboy… Feel my cabinet weight D,” he urges, thrusting rapidly into Vince’s fist. He tilts his head up, eyes lingering on Vince’s wet, open mouth.

“You,” he pants, “your lips. So ultra fine. Finishing… weight… _A_ ,” he says as he surges forward.

Vince isn’t sure what happens first, if Sand starts to come and then kisses him a millisecond after, or if he kisses Vince and then starts to come as a result. The rasp of his rough, dry lips against Vince’s wet, glossy ones is exquisite; his cock twitches electrically in his pants as Sand covers his gloved hand, his shirt and his trousers in puffed jets of glittering sawdust.

When they break apart, Vince’s lips are stinging and his breath is coming in harsh pants and his cowboy hat is knocked askew. Sand is unsteady on his feet, worse than earlier when he’d spun into the clearing. His eyes are dazed and his palms spin down to a slow buzz before stopping their rotation completely. 

Vince blinks and brushes off his trousers and shirt with the gloves, shaking spare bits of sawdust off into the sand. In the dim light, he can’t tell if he’s making the mess better or worse. All he can see is a fine sparkling mist hanging in the air around them as he brushes himself clean, Sand muttering a clipped "I… am… Sandstorm" over and over again, almost as a reminder, as he steadies himself.

He gingerly swipes his gloved hand over the sawdust clinging to the front of his trousers, his head rolling back on his neck at the first brush of his fingers across his achingly hard cock, his hat falling off into a drift of sand behind him. He squeezes himself through the fabric and Sand notices immediately. His recovery time is shocking to Vince, but through the haze of pain and pleasure rocketing through his body, he figures that after a lifetime-long lack of touch, Sand has plenty of energy and motivation to make up for it. He straightens up to his full height, his chest rustling as he puffs it out.

“Ha! My turn now, cowboy,” Sand proclaims, revving his palms at top speed, pointing at the gloves. “Hand them over and feel the power of the DIY Demon! I am Sandstorm!” He punctuates his declaration with flex of his gloved fingers, his hands sheathed at dizzying speed.

Vince bites his lip and pops the button on his trousers as Sand advances. As eager as he is, as good as it’s going to feel to just get his cock free of his pants, there are still alarm bells and warning signals going off in the back of his mind, tugging at his sleeve and telling him to protect what's left of his wardrobe.

“Wait,” he pants, “wait,” holding out a hand to stop Sand moving closer.

Vince unzips himself and then works his belt loose. It flops at his feet limply and he kicks it away so it won’t trip either of them. His breath catches in his throat as he manages to yank his trousers and pants down to mid-thigh in one go, the relief when his cock springs free overwhelming. He hears Sand make a pleased noise of assessment and half-grins back, threading the buttons of his shirt loose as quickly as he can and tossing it onto the closest rock.

“Alright,” he nods to Sand, his outfit now mostly safe from a good old fashioned shredding, “come on.”

Vince closes his eyes when Sand skates a gloved palm over his chest, pale in the desert moonlight, his touch whisper-light and all too brief. The rustle of Sand’s body as he moves around Vince is hypnotic, the gentle scrape of the sheets of his limbs rubbing together reminiscent of the noise Vince’s diamond files made as he shaped his nails. 

A bolt of lust shoots through Vince, straight to his cock, just as a bolt of genius shoots into his clouded brain. 

Nail files, smoothing down rough.

Sandpaper.

 _Exfoliation_.

Vince opens his mouth to blurt out his accidental stroke of brilliance, but freezes when he feels a gloved finger brush a lock of hair away from the sensitive skin on the back of his neck. 

“Hmm,” Sand breathes, his arm wrapping around Vince’s waist, his gloved hand sliding firmly down Vince’s stomach. The texture of the leather is smooth and cool against him, raising a trail of goosebumps along his skin. Sand lingers at his straightener scar, fingers playing across the red dash of skin at his hip.

“Gonna polish you up, cowboy.” A soft, whimpery “ _unhhh_ ” drops from Vince’s lips at the feeling of Sand pressing up against his bare back, sandpaper crinkling on his skin. “Gonna buff you good.” His fingers play over Vince’s belly button, down the trail of hair underneath. Sand’s silly, clipped voice lingers sleek and creamy over his next two words.

“Satin smooth.”

Vince hisses at the first touch to his cock, Sand’s other huge hand coming around to grip him suddenly using the same glove Vince used on him, the leather chewed up and roughened from Sand’s cock. His heart rockets into his throat and he squirms, the brush of Sand’s body sudden against his. Before Sand gives Vince his first stroke, he switches back just as quickly to the unblemished glove and Vince feels his heart slide back into his chest, relief flooding him at the touch. 

After that, Sand starts to pump him with no hesitation. He leans back into Sand’s body lightly, the sensation and stimulation incredible. Sand’s grip around his cock is confident and tight, his huge fist engulfing Vince just right, the soft scrape of Sand’s body against his back magnifying every movement. The fringe of the gloves tickles his skin deliciously as Sandstorm strokes him and slides his other hand across Vince’s taut stomach, little puffs of air and brushes of leather kissing his hips as Sand moves around him. 

It's quiet in the Desert of Nightmares compared to the whirling wind from earlier. The only sounds now are Vince's steady whimpers and the dry rustling of Sandstorm's body as he moves his arm. It sounds like leaves scattering against the sidewalks at the Zooniverse, like animals rustling in the straw in their enclosures, like Howard shuffling old feeding schedules about.

Inside of Vince's head, it sounds like a maelstrom. The desert is still but as he feels bursts of heat radiating through his veins, it sounds like hurricane wind.

Vince hears a motorized whirring and groans when he feels Sandstorm’s nipples begin to rotate against his back. He gulps and spreads his legs further, replanting his boots in the sand, his trousers halfway down his muscled thighs, the fabric straining as he tenses. He doesn’t care how quickly he’s gotten there, he just knows it feels amazing, incredible, his orgasm already starting to build in the base of his spine.

He grinds his teeth, his hips jerking forward frantically as Sandstorm's body presses closer, the exfoliation exquisite. “Fuck,” he hisses, “Sand, make me come.” He snaps his hips, moaning in frustration, in agony, his orgasm swirling just out of reach, his vision hazy.

“Sand me down,” Vince gasps, “sand me down to a pulp.”

Vince arches his back as Sand grips him, the leather of his glove sliding over his wet cock. He presses his lips shut, grinding them together to concentrate on the pressure, imagining he’s being kissed by Sand again. His gritty lipgloss comes in handy; the stinging scrape against the delicate skin of his lips is delicious. 

“Ahhhh, ahhhh,” he gasps as Sand rubs up against his bare back like a cat. His movement is perfect, the extra exfoliation just what Vince needs to set him off.

He comes hard, his thighs tensed, stretching the material of his trousers taut where they’re trapped around his legs. 

Vince slumps backwards, his knees going a little weak. His chest is still heaving when Sand leans forward and bleats, "Gonna keep these in my DIY arsenal, cowboy," waggling his gloved hands in Vince's line of vision. He gives Vince's cock one last playful tug and leaps to pick up his toolbelt. He grabs Vince's hat as an afterthought, dusting it off and crowning Vince's head with it before pulling the horn out of his belt and presenting it to Vince.

"Blow this if you're in need of my DIY services," he commands, the saucy waggle of his brows underlining exactly what he means by "DIY services."

Vince nods. He tilts his hat as Sand twirls back to his wood shop with a burst of clipped "Ha!"s that echo around the clearing. 

Vince swallows thickly and stumbles to dress himself.

*

After Vince comes, his mind is clearer than it's been in a long time. His skin feels as dewy and fresh as newly woven silk. His lips are stinging like he snogged a cactus, but it's a small price to pay. He doesn't mind the reminder of what happened in the clearing, and Howard carries around all his lip balms and creams in a little portable slave pouch anyway.

He trips back to the tent, thinking about wet sanding as Howard fills his tub to the brim, his huge hands and broad shoulders making easy work of hauling in warm, scented water.

Howard’s DIY mates had debated the merits of dry versus wet sanding for an entire afternoon back at the flat and the discussion had haunted Vince for ages. The sheer, bored desperation he had felt then is replaced by intrigue now.

He pictures banishing everyone from camp, loping back to Sand’s enclosure, inviting him back to his tent for a bath... and then Vince shakes his head.

He thinks about his behavior, the new Vince and the old Vince. Zoo Vince. He thinks about past chances, past acquaintances, past attractions as he soaks, Howard on standby in the corner to rinse his hair and oil his limbs when he requests.

He thinks about how he’ll never be able to get a manicure in public again if he wants the zipper of his trousers to stay intact.

He reflects. 

He thinks about reflections. 

About seventeen mirrors' worth. 

If somewhere, his blonde self is still adjusting his hair in them. 

If the man with the mirrorballs is waiting for him.

**Author's Note:**

> The Mirror World is a rough (ha) sequel to Wood Work. Happy reading, if you're so inclined to continue!


End file.
